One Night with the CEO

The Venetian Charity Gala at Manhattan’s Grand Plaza Hotel was the sort of affair where champagne flowed like liquid diamonds and every smile was insured for half a million dollars.

Elena Vance did not belong here, and she felt the disparity down to the soles of her borrowed four-inch silver stilettos.

She stood near the towering Corinthian pillars at the periphery of the grand ballroom, carefully balancing a flute of Laurent-Perrier. Her floor-length emerald slip dress—borrowed from her roommate Maya, who worked in showroom PR—clung to every curve of her body like liquid jade. It had a daring open back that dipped all the way to the swell of her lower spine, held together by gossamer-thin straps. Over her eyes, she wore a delicate black filigree mask, its lacquered edges curving upward like the wings of a night raven.

"Stop hovering by the cheese platter like a fugitive, Elena," her best friend Liam muttered beside her, tugging at the collar of his rental tuxedo. "You look like a million bucks. Literally. Cross Media paid ten grand for this corporate table. Eat the caviar, drink the champagne, and for God’s sake, pretend you don’t have twenty unfinished pitch decks waiting on your desktop."

Elena took a slow sip of the sparkling wine, letting the cold effervescence settle her fluttering nerves. "I stayed until nine o’clock last night formatting the Q3 regional projections, Liam. If the board doesn’t approve my digital campaign by Friday, our entire junior team is on the chopping block."

"The old chairman is eighty-two years old and half-blind. He wouldn't know a digital campaign from a microwave manual," Liam replied dismissively, snatching a bacon-wrapped scallop from a passing waiter's silver tray. "Besides, rumors are flying across the executive floors. Word is, the old man is stepping down this week. His nephew from London is taking over the conglomerate."